Classic Poetry

Kind solace in a dying hour!Such, father, is not (now) my theme-I will not madly deem that powerOf Earth may shrive me of the sinUnearthly pride hath revell'd in-I have no time to dote or dream:You call it hope- that fire of fire!It is but agony of desire:If I can hope- Oh God! I can-Its fount is holier- more divine-I would not call thee fool, old man,But such is not a gift of thine.

Know thou the secret of a spiritBow'd from its wild pride into shame.O yearning heart! I did inheritThy withering portion with the fame,The searing glory which hath shoneAmid the jewels of my throne,Halo of Hell! and with a painNot Hell shall make me fear again-O craving heart, for the lost flowersAnd sunshine of my summer hours!The undying voice of that dead time,With its interminable chime,Rings, in the spirit of a spell,Upon thy emptiness- a knell.

I have not always been as now:The fever'd diadem on my browI claim'd and won usurpingly-Hath not the same fierce heirdom givenRome to the Caesar- this to me?The heritage of a kingly mind,And a proud spirit which hath strivenTriumphantly with human kind.

On mountain soil I first drew life:The mists of the Taglay have shedNightly their dews upon my head,And, I believe, the winged strifeAnd tumult of the headlong airHave nestled in my very hair.

So late from Heaven- that dew- it fell(Mid dreams of an unholy night)Upon me with the touch of Hell,While the red flashing of the lightFrom clouds that hung, like banners, o'er,Appeared to my half-closing eyeThe pageantry of monarchy,And the deep trumpet-thunder's roarCame hurriedly upon me, tellingOf human battle, where my voice,My own voice, silly child!- was swelling(O! how my spirit would rejoice,And leap within me at the cry)The battle-cry of Victory!

The rain came down upon my headUnshelter'd- and the heavy windRendered me mad and deaf and blind.It was but man, I thought, who shedLaurels upon me: and the rush-The torrent of the chilly airGurgled within my ear the crushOf empires- with the captive's prayer-The hum of suitors- and the toneOf flattery 'round a sovereign's throne.

My passions, from that hapless hour,Usurp'd a tyranny which menHave deem'd, since I have reach'd to power,My innate nature- be it so:But father, there liv'd one who, then,Then- in my boyhood- when their fireBurn'd with a still intenser glow,(For passion must, with youth, expire)E'en then who knew this iron heartIn woman's weakness had a part.

I have no words- alas!- to tellThe loveliness of loving well!Nor would I now attempt to traceThe more than beauty of a faceWhose lineaments, upon my mind,Are- shadows on th' unstable wind:Thus I remember having dweltSome page of early lore upon,With loitering eye, till I have feltThe letters- with their meaning- meltTo fantasies- with none.

O, she was worthy of all love!Love- as in infancy was mine-'Twas such as angel minds aboveMight envy; her young heart the shrineOn which my every hope and thoughtWere incense- then a goodly gift,For they were childish and upright-Pure- as her young example taught:Why did I leave it, and, adrift,Trust to the fire within, for light?

We grew in age- and love- together,Roaming the forest, and the wild;My breast her shield in wintry weather-And when the friendly sunshine smil'd,And she would mark the opening skies,I saw no Heaven- but in her eyes.

Young Love's first lesson is- the heart:For 'mid that sunshine, and those smiles,When, from our little cares apart,And laughing at her girlish wiles,I'd throw me on her throbbing breast,And pour my spirit out in tears-There was no need to speak the rest-No need to quiet any fearsOf her- who ask'd no reason why,But turn'd on me her quiet eye!

Yet more than worthy of the loveMy spirit struggled with, and strove,When, on the mountain peak, alone,Ambition lent it a new tone-I had no being- but in thee:The world, and all it did containIn the earth- the air- the sea-Its joy- its little lot of painThat was new pleasure- the ideal,Dim vanities of dreams by night-

And dimmer nothings which were real-(Shadows- and a more shadowy light!)Parted upon their misty wings,And, so, confusedly, becameThine image, and- a name- a name!Two separate- yet most intimate things.

I was ambitious- have you knownThe passion, father? You have not:A cottager, I mark'd a throneOf half the world as all my own,And murmur'd at such lowly lot-But, just like any other dream,Upon the vapour of the dewMy own had past, did not the beamOf beauty which did while it thro'The minute- the hour- the day- oppressMy mind with double loveliness.

We walk'd together on the crownOf a high mountain which look'd downAfar from its proud natural towersOf rock and forest, on the hills-The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers,And shouting with a thousand rills.

I spoke to her of power and pride,But mystically- in such guiseThat she might deem it nought besideThe moment's converse; in her eyesI read, perhaps too carelessly-A mingled feeling with my own-The flush on her bright cheek, to meSeem'd to become a queenly throneToo well that I should let it beLight in the wilderness alone.

I wrapp'd myself in grandeur then,And donn'd a visionary crown-Yet it was not that FantasyHad thrown her mantle over me-But that, among the rabble- men,Lion ambition is chained down-And crouches to a keeper's hand-Not so in deserts where the grand-The wild- the terrible conspireWith their own breath to fan his fire.

Look 'round thee now on Samarcand!Is not she queen of Earth? her prideAbove all cities? in her handTheir destinies? in all besideOf glory which the world hath knownStands she not nobly and alone?Falling- her veriest stepping-stoneShall form the pedestal of a throne-And who her sovereign? Timour- heWhom the astonished people sawStriding o'er empires haughtilyA diadem'd outlaw!

O, human love! thou spirit givenOn Earth, of all we hope in Heaven!Which fall'st into the soul like rainUpon the Siroc-wither'd plain,And, failing in thy power to bless,But leav'st the heart a wilderness!Idea! which bindest life aroundWith music of so strange a sound,And beauty of so wild a birth-Farewell! for I have won the Earth.

When Hope, the eagle that tower'd, could seeNo cliff beyond him in the sky,His pinions were bent droopingly-And homeward turn'd his soften'd eye.'Twas sunset: when the sun will partThere comes a sullenness of heartTo him who still would look uponThe glory of the summer sun.That soul will hate the ev'ning mist,So often lovely, and will listTo the sound of the coming darkness (knownTo those whose spirits hearken) as oneWho, in a dream of night, would flyBut cannot from a danger nigh.

What tho' the moon- the white moonShed all the splendour of her noon,Her smile is chilly, and her beam,In that time of dreariness, will seem(So like you gather in your breath)A portrait taken after death.And boyhood is a summer sunWhose waning is the dreariest one-For all we live to know is known,And all we seek to keep hath flown-Let life, then, as the day-flower, fallWith the noon-day beauty- which is all.

I reach'd my home- my home no moreFor all had flown who made it so.I pass'd from out its mossy door,And, tho' my tread was soft and low,A voice came from the threshold stoneOf one whom I had earlier known-O, I defy thee, Hell, to showOn beds of fire that burn below,A humbler heart- a deeper woe.

Father, I firmly do believe-I know- for Death, who comes for meFrom regions of the blest afar,Where there is nothing to deceive,Hath left his iron gate ajar,And rays of truth you cannot seeAre flashing thro' Eternity-I do believe that Eblis hathA snare in every human path-Else how, when in the holy groveI wandered of the idol, Love,Who daily scents his snowy wingsWith incense of burnt offeringsFrom the most unpolluted things,Whose pleasant bowers are yet so rivenAbove with trellis'd rays from Heaven,No mote may shun- no tiniest fly-The lightning of his eagle eye-How was it that Ambition crept,Unseen, amid the revels there,Till growing bold, he laughed and leaptIn the tangles of Love's very hair?

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About the Author
Edgar Allen Poe (1809-1849) was born in Boston, Massachusetts, to parents who were itinerant actors. His father David Poe Jr. died probably in 1810. Elizabeth Hopkins Poe died in 1811, leaving three children. Edgar was taken into the home of a Richmond merchant John Allan. The remaining children were cared for by others. Poe's brother William died young and sister Rosalie become later insane... Read Edgar Allen Poe's Full Biography